A Million Things
by Jack of Chocolate
Summary: Hiding out in a ranch he bought with the Xavier money, Charles stays recluse and completely unknown to the world. That is, until Erik Lensherr, a fugitive running from mutant-hunters, ends up at the reclusive ranch in the middle of a downpour. Cherik.
1. Chapter 1

Hey, guys. It's been a while. Not that anyone would remember me, but this is a little fanfic I've got started.

**Warning: There will be homosexual men in this fic. Eventually. You'll see. If this offends you, I am terribly sorry for your loss. I warned you. I bold-faced it too. No complaining for a lack of warning.  
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Pairing: Erik/Charles, maybe some other ones as the plot develops more. I"ll let you know.

Theme: Dystopia, generally messed up government, and really just a bit strange if anything.

This is an **on-going** fic so stick around for new chapters.

I hope you like.

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><p>Spring, summer, fall, and winter all expressed their spirits through temperature and moisture levels.<p>

At least here, on the ranch, everything seemed uncommonly perfect.

He was not particularly _good_ at agriculture—not that he had at all considered becoming a farmer—but he had grown to enjoy some parts of it. It was not nearly as gruesome as toiling in the fields day after day; he had witnessed the hands of devoted workers growing tougher and more blistered under the sweltering sunlight. Instead, he opted to take on a more peaceful aspect that perhaps hunter-gatherers of history books had possibly experienced, not a glimmer of knowledge about capitalism and its drastic effects. Nature did as nature saw fit on the ranch, and he found nothing but harmony the moment he woke from the excited chirps of birds and the rays of light on his face just slightly softened by glowing foliage just outside his window. He found comfort in these aspects of living on a ranch.

He stirred his cup of tea, earl grey with a tiny bit of milk, absentmindedly.

Sometimes it got terribly cold, however, as winter approached. Every bit of his digits and toes seemed to freeze up quite unfortunately as he attempted to prepare hot soup for himself with garden vegetables that surrounded his ranch. His hands would shake uncontrollably due to the cold, and once, when the weather fell quite below zero degrees Celsius, he dropped the bowl of hot, scalding soup on his hand and the down the side of his right leg, the ceramic bowl crashing onto the floor and breaking into sharp, permanent pieces. He yelped briefly, the splash of boiling soup quite shocking him at once. He tsked sharply, and quickly grabbed a rag (which he had used in the morning to clean up some spilled cup of tea) and stooped down, wiping the floors in a sunken sense of failure. Which, of course, was ridiculous; how could he be judged in the eyes of nature? He was created. Naturally.

He had brought quite a few books from Oxford from whence he came. With a Ph.D. from Oxford University, he should have been quite successful in locating a job. However, he simply chose this lifestyle and brought his life with him and onto this ranch (he wished he could believe that, he truly did). He brushed his fingertips across the perfectly gold and glossy certificate bound in leather, thick and heavy, preserved in memory.

_Charles __Francis __Xavier_.

It was almost a deafening secret, a part of his past that he did not want anyone to know. His grip tightened against the document ever so slightly, slight with conviction and distanced anger. There was a part of him just underneath the surface wanting to remember nothing but this ranch. He placed the certificate down, firmly and gently at the same time.

He released the breath he did not know he was holding. Nothing mattered now, he thought, as he glanced outside the window. The clouds had merged into a canvas of white; dimensional nuances of gray discolored its stunning shade that was akin to snow. Traces of brooding in the skies were quite visible now; rain should be coming soon. He recalled the clothes he had left hanging outside to dry last night. Pulling himself out of his own mind, he stood up to gather his clothes.

Once outside it became more evident that it would rain soon, what with the clouds almost blackening, so he quickly collected his garments without another second of hesitation.

His usual attire consisted of a faded blue denim shirt (which he purchased at the flea market that usually came by every Sunday a mile or so away from the ranch) and a pair of dark denim that he had previously purchased during his school years in Oxford. Although his well-dressed-Oxford-man-mentality still bound him to his cardigans, coats, scarves, and the like, he found that he began to neglect his state of dress more frequently. He recalled the bars that he visited often back then, the absolutely stupid and horrific things he did at those bars, the uneven cobblestone, the chilly Monday mornings with a cup of hot tea in his hand, _Raven_—

His thoughts stopped short. Every molecule weighed down on him, especially the humid air that seeped onto his plain clothes. He was suddenly aware of his existence, about what had happened, and it truly stung him this time, wound cut fresh once more. He began wondering about his questionable existence. He dwelt on his contrite memories for a few more moments until the first drops of rain began falling on the side of his cheek. Cradling his dry clothes, he jogged back to his house and dropped them into a basket. In the mid-action of taking off his shoes, he remembered and froze. The horses. He cursed himself lightly and put his shoes back on properly before jogging back towards the expanse of grass where the horses usually roamed. The distance between his cottage to the stables was rather long, he found, as the rain began pouring harder. By the time he spotted them clearly, he was utterly drenched. The horses did not seem too horrified at being neglected until the little droplets turned into a complete downpour, but they also did not seem too dignified about it either.

He led them back the stables where he also fed them, apologizing for his lack of common sense. Petting their drenched hair with a smile on his face, he suddenly noted the chilling breeze that made it clear that he was not dry. The horses always managed to boost his mood despite his usual sense of calm and a pool of guilt that would never evaporate. The sound of rain echoed quite a bit even with the extensive roofing that he managed to create for such gloomy occasions. He remembered the stack of hay that lay in the corner, and quickly brought them something to eat. He always found that horses chewed with a quaintness that he couldn't quite put his finger on. One of them neighed briefly; out of content or spite, he was not sure. He sat at the bench he put there if he ever wanted to read in the stables which happened to be more frequent than he could have imagined. Thunder suddenly boomed outside and echoed loudly in the stables, the horses jolting and neighing anxiously at the sound. He peeked outside the door, the old wood creaking, and saw a thick downpour, a simple blurring of the landscape under an absolute pressure of heavy rain. Lightning flashed across the darkened sky, a crack of light that seemed almost god-like.

_But isn't nature God in itself?_

Charles found himself adding the question as an afterthought of his contemplations. As he continued his living on the ranch in proximity to nature, he further adopted the atheist conclusion to existence. He had never been religious in any sort of way though his parents had attempted to raise him in such a way; he only began to realize the harsher evidence in his own experience.

Another boom of thunder echoed and jolted him out of his thoughts, the restlessness of the horses also perpetuating due to the monstrous sound.

"It's all right, Thor; it's the lightning you should be worried about rather than the thunder. Although, the chance of you being struck by lightning is also negli—"

Before he could finish his last word, he felt it.

Charles' eyes went wide and panicked. They suddenly flooded him, the thoughts, the emotions, physical pain, anger—

He had not felt the presence of a mutant mind in a good while. He had always kept himself in check whenever he went to the weekly market, but the double-edged sword of the nearby mind caught him off guard. He was also not particularly prepared to encounter another mutant especially on this ranch that he picked out especially to escape everything. He tried to shut out the thoughts, but he only focused even more, to understand why he was there, only to feel the sudden rush of bottomless emotions—_run,__ run__ wherever__ possible, __God__ don__'__t __let__ them __catch __me_—and Charles just concentrated harder. The man was being chased by the mutant-hunters no doubt. He pressed two fingers against his temple.

_Over here. Go in between the trees, past the fences, and over to the pastures. There's a shed nearby. Yes. Go in. They can't find you there._

The emotions ran wilder than before, burning him as he directed the man to the shed.

_Calm__ your __mind, __Erik_.

Charles wasn't sure if he had consciously and literally calmed the man's mind, but he proceeded to do as Charles had directed. He then willed the mutant-hunters away giving false directions to the stranger, well, Erik's, whereabouts. Another roll of thunder echoed, rather suddenly it seemed. The horses didn't fail to become restless again; Thor especially, while Loki seemed to walk in circles a bit anxiously. A few short seconds later, the wooden door bust open.

The man (named Erik, apparently, Erik Magnus Lensherr, in fact) loomed at the entrance, tall and a bit intimidating to be honest. A glint of fear and shock reflected in the man's eyes, however dark it was at that moment. It was the raw fear that Charles knew far too well, the introversion of self, a desire to hide, to lick his own wounds in decadent silence and solitude. He saw all of this and so much more, and he opened his mouth to tell him some fraction of his thoughts, when, in a blink of a second, a damp, rough hand clamped over his mouth, Erik's breath heavy in his right ear.

Charles tried to yell, to tell him to let go right at this instance because _what__ the__ hell__ is __he __doing_—

"_Shhhh_." It was a sharp, cutting noise enough to do as the sound suggested.

So Charles waited it out, waiting until the man understood that the mutant-hunters won't be coming anywhere near here. His arms had unknowingly crossed in his almost childlike petulance. Seconds passed, then perhaps minutes. He vaguely saw in his peripherals the paranoid movement of the man listening carefully for any noise through the rain and thunder. He finally removed the hand, but in its place was a switchblade to his neck, just hovering and close to cutting near his jugular. Charles gulped, not out of fear but because he saw that this man could easily and simply employ his mutation to move the switchblade but refused to do so in caution.

_Just in case I'm human._

He felt the man's pain of running and trying to hide from possible disclosure of his powers to the government.

"What are you doing here?" he breathed into his ear, now warmer compared to his the left ear. Charles remained rational. "Well, _Erik_, I live here. And," he took a breath, trying to eye the blade, "I can help you." The man's face seemed to slacken in shock, but tightened again with rage, the knife pressing closer. It felt absolutely freezing against his throat. A shiver ran down his spine. "How do you know my name? Did they tell you to look for me?" The fear in his eyes was all too honest and jagged. Charles couldn't help but feel so terribly sorry, so dismayed that this was still happening to mutants after all these years. A blatant cause for the good of humanity. For the good of order, structure, prevention of chaos. Charles opened his mouth to speak, only to remember a better way to demonstrate his alliance.

_I'm like you, Erik._

The rain seemed to pick up its pace, louder and more frequent in its pitter-pattering dance. Erik's face softened this time though the hardness in his eyes still remained. His defenses melted in both mind and body, and Charles remembered that this was the first time he had spoken to someone through mental connection in years. He had forgotten how nice it was. How he had forgotten. Erik lowered his switchblade ever so slowly, as did his gaze, and he let it float and hover over his hand, twirling it slightly without ever touching it physically. He then spoke up again, eyes never leaving his switchblade. His voice had lowered in pitch, all the defensiveness of his previous rage exhausted and trickling away. "I thought I was alone."

"Erik?" Charles added a tone of inquiry, something akin to asking for permission. The man in question looked up from his floating switchblade. Charles offered a small smile and placed a hand on his shoulder in what he thought was a reassuring gesture. He didn't miss the way Erik tensed up at the touch, but he also did not retaliate in anger.

_You__'__re __not __alone_.

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><p>Terrible? Good? Almost good? Want to beta me because I suck at syntax?<p>

Let me know.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it. I also want to thank you for waiting patiently for this chapter. Please enjoy.

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><p>The rather awkward jog and run strategy of returning to the cottage proved to be worth it.<p>

Upon entering, the small area closest to the door had a counter in an L-shape, along with a few cupboards that covered the top portion of the walls above the counter and a petite marble table that stood in the middle of the area. Further right was another small room that looked something like a living room. The fireplace rested right near the edge of the living room, and some other small door was on the wall furthest right from the entrance. Other than the two areas, there seemed to be nothing else of the cottage. The warmth that emanated from the fire was evident on their slicked clothes and rain-bitten skin. Charles took his shoes off, and let out the water outside. Erik, thankfully, did the same. Charles quickly grabbed two pairs of socks from the basket containing fresh clothes. He handed it to him, and Erik seemed to examine his hand a bit before (reluctantly) taking them. The silence lingered, clinging like honey, slow to move along the continuum of time. Charles cleared his throat and changed his socks, the bits of his toes going almost numb. He involuntarily shivered, though the cottage was much warmer than the shed. He cleared his throat briefly, and he moved onto his next task which was to find the unexpected guest some clothes. He turned to him. "Please do sit in front of the fire. It'll make you feel loads better." Erik seemed to consider it, eyes melding to the orange heat, but he only stood with incredible stillness.

Charles responded to Erik's animated reaction with a wry stretch of lips that barely constituted an awkward smile.

Since prodding the man to the fire did not work, he simply had no choice but to simply hand him some towels (_hand_ actually meant _set __on __the __dining __room__ table_). Erik seemed to have a perpetual glare across his face, some piercing set of dewy green eyes bent on pushing every bit of life and help away from him. Charles only dropped his own gaze and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to bring some circulation into them. That usually never worked. "All right, then," he muttered under his breath, not knowing what else to say. He moved on to find the man some clothes though he wasn't sure whether he would accept them or not.

The rain became background music as it always did when the sky would pour like this. Charles reminisced on those days, however similarly they seemed to blend and blur together in a mix of taut relaxation. He began sifting through his clothes that he had collected today, carefully looking for one that would suit Erik who seemed, now, to be scoping out his absolutely dangerous cottage. He had laundered a few shirts, some jeans, socks, a cardigan. These were rather too small for Erik. He looked again to make sure. No, none of the clothes here seemed to be big enough. Charles set down the woven basket back to its proper place and made his way to his closet.

Erik snapped his head towards Charles, gaze threatening. He paused, mid-action, and even entertained the idea of putting his hands up. "I was just going to find something dry for you to wear," Charles glanced at the towel on the dining room table, unused and still neatly folded. He scowled at that. "And, please, won't you use the towel? It's not poisoned, I swear it." Erik held the gaze for a moment longer only to move onto examining the place again. Charles breathed a small sigh, and finally headed towards a tiny closet. Very tiny, compared to the grandiose closet he had during his adolescence and still smaller than the one he had back at his flat in Oxford. He had a lot of the clothes hung up, and others folded and neatly placed on the floor of the closet. He always had a fixated affinity for good tweed, cashmere, and the like. He supposed he couldn't shake off everything in his past despite his very intent to do so. He began the process of looking.

Scarf, vest, cardigan, cardigan, cardigan—when did he buy so many sodding cardigans—a pair of jeans—that, come to think of it, might fit Erik just fine—sweater vest, _another_ cardigan, and another pile of clothes that he'd have to go through. A few jumpers and random accessories seem to be the only thing more neatly hung up. The rest of the clothes were simply on the floor, waiting for redemption. Well, that was just fine for Charles. He liked a good challenge.

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><p>A few good minutes later, Charles finally emerged with an armful of clothes. He had changed his damp clothes as well, donning a sweater vest and a cardigan over it, and a pair of jeans. A rush of warmth washed into his cold skin as he passed the fireplace and to the other side of the marble dining table where Erik still stood.<p>

Erik had dried himself off after all. Good.

It was one thing to have an unfamiliar mutant in the cottage and a whole other problem to have an unfamiliar and _ill_ mutant in the cottage. Charles held out the clothes to him which turned out to be awkward again because Erik had apparently taken a liking to just stare at things without taking them. Charles cleared his throat slightly, eyeing him warily. "Here are some clothes that should hold up until your other clothes are dry, and," he paused, wondering briefly what he had in the pantry for food. "Would you like anything to drink? Perhaps a cup of tea?" he asked as he remembered that he still had a kettle of hot tea from earlier. Erik still hadn't taken the clothes so he finally set it on the dining room table, next to the used towel. Charles used to be so good at this socializing business once upon a time, but it seems isolation has gripped him with anxiety upon talking to another human being situated in the intimate barriers of his home. Also, he hadn't replied to his offer on a hot beverage. So he continued with his rusty social skills. "Right, then, I'll just, uh, make some soup. If you want any I'll make—"

"You're British," Erik interrupted, eyes looking up as though he was directing the question at the unmoving ceiling fan.

Suspended silences were becoming common occurrences between them.

Charles blinked, wondering whether to be amused or bemused at the insight. But words were progress, were they not? "Well, I've got the accent, I suppose. And the dialect. What of it?"

"What were you running from?"

Charles felt his own face darken, the burden of memory heavy again. He ran his hand against the chilling marble of the dining room table, not looking Erik in the eyes.

"You very well know what it was," he replied, his throat closing up slightly as more undesirable memories welled up inside him. He stood in silence, anticipating more questions only to hear a small grunt. Erik looked straight at him with a bit of conviction. "Then you'll know to stay out of my head." Charles recalled the terrifying nightmare that was Erik's mind; the shattering trauma, along the edges of darkness and hatred, vehemence boiling a gruesome fever; dreams painted in brilliantly, but only monochrome because it was rendered unachievable. But it wasn't about staying out of a person's head—Charles wished frequently that he never had these so-called "powers" as some underground resistance groups called them—but a shared empathy that he could never fully relinquish, a sudden cascade of sympathetic longing.

"Will do," he said politely, as he made his way to his pantry. He was only a stranger after all.

Erik swiftly took the clothes from the table and began stripping right then and there and Charles was so inclined to look away because he seriously could not recall the last time he had been this close to another human being. Certainly they were both men, but it felt wrong to stare at anyone while they were changing, much less a stranger. He left him to his own devices with a small clearing of his throat, moving to the fire where he usually cooked all his meals. The fire was usually always ablaze, particularly on days like these. He perched a cauldron onto the hook and turned to grab the water pitcher when he spotted Erik standing with his clothes donned decently.

The pants fit rather nicely (he always did have an eye for things like that, strangely enough). He also had on an old black turtleneck of his which he had bought on a whim. Erik stared down at himself, smoothing down his arms and front part of his torso. He made a noise which sounded akin to satisfaction. Pleased, Charles grabbed the pitcher, turned back to the cauldron and proceeded to pour the water in, closing the lid thereafter. The fire crackled and snapped, the hot glow melting him and at the same time turning his cheeks warm. He got up from his stooping position and walked slowly to the counter where the dining table was, being a bit mindful of Erik's dislike of sudden movements. He cut up whatever he had; carrots, tomatoes, celery, mushrooms, and the like, all derived from his garden and occasionally the weekly market. All of his foods were usually kept buried underground in ceramic containers to keep them from spoiling too easily. He did have some chicken stock from a day ago which he thought would not be so bad. Only the sound of Charles' knife against the cutting board broke through the silence and kept the awkwardness at bay. That is, until Erik unexpectedly chimed in.

"Is that it?" he asked, looking pointedly at the cauldron.

Charles followed his line of vision, pausing in the middle of cutting the vegetables for a moment. He continued, a bit sheepish but not diminished. "Yes, well, I'll admit it's not the most state-of-the-art kitchen in the world, but I get by rather well."

"But all you have is a pot," Erik stated matter-of-factly. Charles fully faced him now, momentarily forgetting the vegetables. He crossed his arms.

"I'll have you know that that _pot_," he emphasized the offending word, "is an antique Hungarian cauldron of the highest quality." He stopped for a few seconds, staring at the fire and the cauldron. "And it's really not that bad once you get used to it," he finished lamely, and finally glanced at Erik's unconvinced face. Charles ran a hand through his own hair, briefly contemplating the reason why he had not installed a stove in the first place. "It's perfectly fine when it's just me," he turned back to the vegetables and continued chopping, "And it would've been a bit complicated to install it anyway." That last part hurt a little more than it should have, the sediment of his emotions eroding at the gentle prick of remembering his identity. Mutant. A revolution was occurring. Mutants and humans alike were revolting. People were dying. Mutants were lynched. Charles knew. Charles knew because of the network of minds that he had contacted when he went to the market. Even something as simple as getting a stove installed was complicated.

And things were only getting worse. Erik was proof of that.

"Couldn't even install a stove," came the reply from behind him. Charles didn't answer to that.

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><p>It took about thirty minutes or more for the water to boil, and it took another twenty minutes to prepare the soup to a certain degree of edibility. Only a few words were exchanged, and it was mostly Charles trying to iron out any discomfort that Erik might be experiencing. <em>"<em>_It__'__s__ quite __freezing, __isn__'__t __it?__ Don__'__t __you __want __to __sit __by __the __fire?__"_ Erik mostly remained unresponsive and swayed minutely on his feet, then moved to the window to watch the droplets pleading to be let in, hitting the entire cottage in a muffled gravitational shower. He seemed disturbed and alarmingly aware of his surroundings, as though someone would hurt him at any second.

Charles placed the steaming bowl of soup in front of him, along with a spoon, and smiled. The languid, fluidity by which this all happened seemed infinitely casual, much more comfortable than before. Charles brought his own bowl of soup, set it down and undid his apron. He put it aside for the current moment and sat down with ease. Erik had been, for the most part, simply staring at Charles perhaps waiting for something to happen. Charles only looked right at him, almost examining him. Then he reached for the pepper and shook it gently into his bowl. He set it down in a soft knock.

"By the way, Erik, my name is Charles Xavier."

The addressed man gazed up at him, eyes ridden with restricted curiosity. Charles gestured to Erik's bowl and motioned for him to eat. "I may not look like much, but I can cook pretty well with 'just a cauldron.'" Charles' smile grew slightly bigger until he showed teeth. "Even if it is only vegetable soup." His line of vision lingered on Erik's face for a bit longer until then began indulging himself of the same soup he had the other day. Upon taking the first spoonful into his mouth, Charles remembered that he'd had much more high-end (rather ridiculously priced) soups and even steaks and the like, and still, he much more favored the efforts of his own cooking. Whether that was narcissistic he wasn't sure, but he felt a dignified satisfaction in concocting his own meals and rethinking recipes he already knew. It was a realm of comfort, free of the frills and the stress of dealing with people's minds. He still had a cookbook that he bought at the market that he referred to occasionally, and it was in this world of joy in cooking and contemplating simplistic values where he thrived the most. Or rather, he felt his mind thrive in the quiet, and it placated him so.

Charles, through the fringe of his lashes, spotted Erik taking what seemed to be his first spoonful. He felt a bit self-conscious, honestly, because he hadn't needed to worry about what other people thought of his cooking—his own ability to eat the meal was all that was required when living alone. Charles tried not to look so expectant and engaged in Erik's reaction. It took a good portion of his willpower not to simply enter his mind and find out. Erik took another spoonful and picked up the pace as he ate. Charles returned his gaze back down at his own soup and tried to hide his glee. The next few moments consisted of the slurping of soup and the occasional clanking of spoon to bowl. By the time Charles' soup finally dwindled down to half, Erik had finished all of it. Charles looked up from his bowl.

"Do you want more soup?"

He knew he had made a courtesy promise of sorts not to read Erik's mind, but the problem with Charles was that he made a bond with every mind he touched, no matter how short the contact was, and it often, if not all of the time, filled him with some gusty, unnatural hurricane of sympathy. So upon seeing the hollow longing in Erik's eyes, alight for the first time in an indisputable, almost submissive askance of permission, looking quite as though he felt the crumpling of his pride as sharply as the hunger that rose within him, Charles answered without another word and filled the bowl again with oversimplified vegetable soup. He could read expressions just as well as he could minds, and there was no doubt that Erik probably went hungry for a while. The closest town to where he lived was at least twenty miles away, and he could only gather from the striking elements of anguish in his mind that it had been downright awful, to put it lightly. Charles sat back down and finished his soup then refrained from eating any more. Erik appeared to frown slightly, spoon close to his lips, until he set it down and commented, "Why aren't you eating?"

Charles' face eased into a genuine smile. "I think I've had enough." He got up from his seat and looked for the roll of bread that he bought at least a day or two ago; then he couldn't help but feel immensely sorry for his guest who had to have chanced upon the only house that did not have either electricity or gas. It would be definitely cold, but Charles had grown accustomed to it and Erik would sleep by the fire. He brought the bread to Erik and walked a few paces to where the fireplace was. He moved the extra mattress topper that he had, besides his own, nearer to the fireplace. He had always had two mattress toppers, just in case, _just __in __case_ Raven decided to come over. His mind was always searching, wondering, waiting. It was the corrupted sort of shadow that would not leave, could not leave until he knew where she was. He tried to bury those thoughts for the moment. After all, there was a guest in the house now to sleep on the relatively unused topper.

He glanced back at Erik who seemed to have been watching him intently, eyes still piercing, as though _he_ was the telepath. He appeared to be done with all the soup, so Charles took it away to the very small L-shaped counter that _could_ have had a sink. The dishes will have to wait till tomorrow. The light had gone to dark quickly enough, with the rain muddling any bit of sunlight that might have existed. Charles had already lit some candles quickly since the fireplace wasn't enough light to illuminate everything.

"This is where you can sleep. I'm afraid I don't have much room here, but I hope it can suffice. I have plenty of blankets over here so please help yourself."

Then without any seeming reason to do so, Erik levitated the switchblade in front of Charles' face, and it snapped open, revealing the sharp, serrated edges that he could only guess was also on his neck few hours ago. He hadn't taken that close of a look. Charles stood his ground, gaze cool and unyielding.

"What do you _want_ from me?" Erik bit out, face contorted into a form of rage, eyes filled with confusion.

For anyone other than Charles, their patience would have run out by this time. And perhaps earlier, even. But since this was Charles, he only looked at the man attempting to threaten him while at the same time had the haggard and unbearable vulnerability that stood out like a relief carved out of ivory. "Is it so hard to believe that I wouldn't want anything from you? I simply want to give you the hospitality you so deserve after long days of struggling to eat, breathe, and simply surviving. I have regarded your request not to enter your mind with respect, Erik. Don't make me go back on my word." The switchblade seemed to tremble against Charles' words, but it still remained floating near him. "Besides, if I truly wanted something from you, which I don't, I would have coerced it out of you forcefully with my telepathy," Erik's face only tensed at that, so he quickly added, "Not that I would."

"You could be one of those telepaths that work for the government—I've seen—"

"You don't think I know that?" Charles interrupted, eyes focused on watching Erik's reaction. If he couldn't read Erik's mind, he had the damn right to read his face. "Do you really think that the same things that threaten you don't threaten me? Every time I reach out with my telepathy there is a chance that someone might know where I am. And I simply refuse to live the way I would have to live if I were out there in the cities." He took a breath, eyes still pinning Erik's. "This isn't even close to what I dreamt of doing in my life, but it's what I have, and I am offering it to you in earnest, genuine concern from one prosecuted mutant to another." His voice had escalated through his tirade. He had not realized how much he had needed this human contact. He had thought that his rage had decayed a long time ago, but he realized that it would never fully die down. It was still present and still rang truer in his words. But he deflated once again as soon as he saw the change in Erik's face. It was still accented by mistrust but there was a light of understanding that wasn't there before. Charles let a heavy sigh escape his lips, and it soon dawned on him how physically tired he was.

Erik's switchblade snapped shut, and he guided it back to his hand. Charles ran a hand through his own hair in exasperation. "I'm sorry, Erik. I hope you understand that I don't mean to pity you. I honestly don't. But when I felt the presence of your mind, I guided you into the shed with my telepathy, and I felt your pain. I felt your agony." He saw the exact moment Erik's eyes fell into an inward despair, vision downcast and shielding the emotions that may be read in his eyes.

But Charles read them, every single one of them. He knew that anger. It was so pertinent to his life and even more so now because he had experienced the state of Erik's mind. The man standing in front of him had embraced the fear and ran with it, even though he had learned not to trust anyone at all. It was that bravery that Charles so envied.

If he had been half of the man Erik was, he might have even found Raven by now.

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><p>"Thank you."<p>

Charles looked up from the fire.

The atmosphere had gone a bit moody, and their interactions became a bit sullied by the conversation that they had. Charles had expected that he would break the silence and try to coax Erik into going to sleep, but this was new. So taken aback was he with the words of gratitude coming from Erik that he lost his own words and thought processes momentarily. Then he broke into a glowing smile that he hoped didn't seem like mockery. "You're very welcome, Erik."

Erik's actions seemed to indicate that he was taken aback by Charles' response as well. But it was who Charles was, forgiving and patient even for his age. It was only natural when he had been a telepath since a very young age, and he had always known sympathy and empathy like second skin, only much deeper.

"I think I'll turn in for the night," Charles remarked, as he felt the weight of sleepiness on his eyes. "Do you need anything else? There is some leftover soup if you want more. Feel free to help yourself to anything you can find." He slinked onto the mattress topper and drew a thick blanket on top of himself, ready to fall asleep in a few minutes. Erik was still standing somewhere near him.

He spoke. "You trust me?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Charles returned, voice laced with nonchalance, "To gain respect, one must first give it. The same goes with trust, Erik," a yawn broke through his speech, "Also, innocent until proven guilty. Please stop me from giving a lecture about that and about everything else." Then the room fell silent, and Charles' breathing evened out.

* * *

><p>Erik wasn't so sure about these thoughts in his head.<p>

Being constantly burned by people's trusts was so integrated in his life that to think otherwise was almost impossible. _Someone __will __always__ turn __on __you._

He had learned the hard way.

To him, sincerity wasn't granted to him anymore. He had to avoid it. If someone was being sincere, it was to lead him on and into something he actually did not want. But what he wanted and did not want also did not matter because his life would never equate to something he really wanted. He had countless scars, both physical and mental ones, to prove that no one should be trusted. Mankind should not be trusted. Even fellow mutants cannot be trusted. Because it was an infinite cycle of hunting down the unknown and destroying them out of fear that the government was so interested in. Falling into the embrace of trust would only mean destruction of himself, and a greater loss to himself than to the other individual who had lent that sincerity. He had to calculate every movement so that the barrier was firmly there.

It ought to have been there when Charles Xavier held out a helping hand.

He still wasn't too sure about this man.

Within a few hours, the man had given him more hospitality than anyone ever had, not since his parents. He was marked, like all other mutant citizens. There was registration in his passport and official identification that he was a dangerous alien. These IDs were checked and scanned for authenticity. To enter any place registered as a legal business one had to reveal this identification and not doing so would cause report to the police. He had resorted to stealing, violence, and hunger. His insides still warped and made painful convolutions, his stomach trying to deal with the presence of food. It enraged Erik to a point where he thought he'd rather kill himself than deal with this kind of utter humiliation. And when mutants did get ruffled up and unleashed their powers in public, particularly a "threatening" power, there would be a news report on the displays of TV stations nationwide saying that _this_ was the exact reason why mutants must be contained. Then they would recite a hotline that anyone can call toll free to report a mutant.

The only way a mutant would be able to gain protection was to turn in another mutant. Those mutants were recruited, given rewards, and given safety. Some were even offered jobs. A government clearance on a mutant gave him or her the chance to live a life more free. More human. But it was at a shameful price.

He brought his thoughts back to the man now sleeping on the colder side of the room. One could hardly consider it a room. It was a hybrid for everything that he could need but condensed into the smallest space possible. The man—Charles—probably bought the place under another name. He was sleeping without discretion, openly and fully knowing that Erik could burn the place down or run away with the information on where he resided. Erik could only retaliate when handed this sort of trust. But the sincerity, that which he utterly feared, seemed untainted and genuine in spite of his snarling conscience that told him to snap out of it. And yet here was the man asleep while a stranger lurked about his property. He had been entirely much too confused about everything, but it has been a part of protecting integrity and identity. Many of the public mutant rights groups had been disbanded, either by the government or through threats by locals and "human" rights activists. He snorted inwardly at that. As if human rights were completely separate from mutant rights.

He had been standing for a while now, just staring down at the sleeping man. For now, he was vulnerable so he had to stay here. At least for tonight.

Carefully, without making any noise, he crouched down to the mattress topper. He slid under the covers and realized that he hadn't had a proper place to sleep in a while. The simple sleeping arrangements felt just as good as the bed he had as a child. With an involuntary sigh of relief, he blew out the last candle and lied down to sleep.

* * *

><p>Charles hadn't fallen asleep.<p>

But he had been very well pretending it because he had done this many times before as a child, waiting for the creaking of the door that would signal that his mother was home, finally. He had plenty of practice to understand good illusion of peaceful slumber.

He didn't necessarily mean to trick Erik. That wasn't it at all. But he needed to feign an overwhelming sleepiness and openness for Erik to get proper sleep. If Charles demonstrated that he trusted Erik not to kill him by going to sleep before him, then Erik would accept that as an opportunity to sleep comfortably. Truthfully, there was no way that Charles would be able to sleep because Erik still made him unnecessarily nervous, and he worried for the man's health. Especially as the man had stood for at least fifteen good minutes staring at him before slinking down to the mattress. Charles was also keenly aware of Erik's past, though having looked only a glimpse, but a glimpse was all he needed to feel that desperate desire to help him, as he always had. Charles knew this weakness about himself which is also why he had sought shelter by himself. And there was no way that Erik could possibly leave the ranch without Charles being discovered here.

Worries enveloped him, and still continued to do so, until the break of dawn.

* * *

><p>AN: Reviews are greatly appreciated, my friends. It's going to be kind of a slow updating pace because of finals that are coming up, but you'll see me again. Thanks for everything.


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